“Pardon my language, but that’s a load of bull crap,” he retorted crudely. “You may have done everything yourself because you had no one else. In Wystan, you have an entire castle full of people eager to assist.”
“For ten thousand pounds, I’m sure any number of people are eager,” she said dryly. “Even you. But my stepfather is a drunken gambler and bankrupt. There is no reward.” There, that should discourage his interest.
“This is not about the reward but your safety.” Still holding her arm, he surprised her by starting for a side entrance. “The butler’s pantry should be empty by now. We can always pretend we both came down for bread and cheese.”
She yanked her arm from his grasp but followed out of curiosity. Could she trust that he didn’t want the fake reward? About as much as he might trust her to lie about it being fake—impasse. “I have not followed any man’s orders since my mother died when I was sixteen. Do not think to tell me what to do.”
“Do I strike you as insane?” He held open the door for her. “I grew up surrounded by Malcolm women. Rainford was being polite by calling them headstrong.”
Iona tried to imagine growing up in a family of strong women but she failed even at the concept of family. “I wish I had known your family. Mine is isolated. I have no aunts or cousins.”
“Lucky you.” He led her through the dining room to the baize-covered door the servants used, into a room filled with cabinets of china and crystal. “The servants have learned to leave bread and accompaniments in here so we do not invade the kitchen to feed our late night cravings.”
“Thoughtful.” She watched as he carved a loaf of bread, realizing she was hungry.
“You barely ate your dinner.” He handed her a slice slathered in honey. “Sorry I can’t offer tea.”
Because everyone had the makings for tea in their bedchambers, Iona realized. In a house as sprawling as this, tea would be cold by the time it came from the kitchen. And he wasn’t about to go near a bedchamber with her, she understood.
In the intimacy of the empty pantry, the earl offered a comforting familiarity, as if they might actually be related. He didn’t seem particularly fond of family, but she’d like to imagine what it was like to be held and treasured, if only for a few minutes. Foolish, she knew. She’d simply been alone too long.
She stepped nearer the exit. “I am not your concern. I am virtually a stranger.”
He leaned his long frame against the wooden counter and finished chewing a bite of the apple he’d chosen. He’d loosened his cravat and collar earlier and unfastened his coat, giving him an unusually rakish air—especially with a beard shadowing his virile jaw.
“You are female, Malcolm, and a guest in my home. Unless you have already murdered your stepfather, it is my duty to shelter you. Is your sister safe? Do we need to send for her?”
Tears sprang to her eyes. She so wanted to see Isobel, to be certain she was safe and happy—“As safe as I am with a reward over our heads.” She tried to sound confident, as her mother had taught her. “We thought we were less likely to be noticed if we split up.”
“Fine, then let’s decide on the level of your danger. Why is your stepfather offering a reward he cannot afford?”
“He thinks he can sell my title,” Iona said flatly. “I am Iona, the Countess of Craigmore.”
Eight
Gerard was having some difficulty concentrating on the beekeeper’s story while inhaling her lush feminine scent entwined with roses. Did she wear perfume beneath that bulky gown? Had she removed her corset to move so freely?
Grateful her story didn’t involve tears so he did not feel compelled to take her in his arms and test his corset theory, he almost didn’t register the significance of her declaration.
Even then, he had to take time to process it through his lust-crazed brain. And another moment to reply with his practiced indifference. “Countess? You are heir to your father’s estate?”
A countess. He was hiding a runaway countess in Wystan. He knew better than to ask questions! Life was far simpler when he addressed only his assigned duties.
“My mother’s estate,” she corrected. “Craigmore is an old title. The writ passes to heirs general. We’re Malcolms, after all, and for a hundred years, we bore no sons. It was only sensible to allow the land to pass to offspring of either gender.” She nibbled at her last piece of bread. “Of course, even though she’s younger by an hour, Isobel could inherit. The title actually goes into abeyance until the Queen decides. We’ve never had reason to petition her.”
Gerard attempted to recall archaic Scots law, but he’d never really thought to need it. “So after your mother died, the title legally went into abeyance, but your stepfather continued using it?”
“Exactly. His only interest is in draining the estate and playing lord of the manor. We’re talking about the Highlands. We are accustomed to taking the law into our hands. Those who do not accept an English queen are even less likely to care about the legality of his claim.”
He rolled his eyes. “Jacobites, in this day and age.”
She ignored his comment. “My real father was a baron, so the locals were accustomed to calling my mother’s husband my lord. As his daughters, one of us can probably assume his barony. It was another ancient writ.” She pinched off a bit more bread. “My mother petitioned Parliament to allow my father to assume the higher title so our area would have better representation, as I understand it, leastways.”
“A cynical assessment but probably correct,” he agreed, cutting her a piece of cheese. “So your father had every right to be called earl. The locals became accustomed to addressing your mother’s husband as lord and didn’t worry about the details.”
“One assumes. My father died when we were quite young. My mother was already ill. She had no immediate family to rely on. Mortimer was a younger son, a gentleman, and not a bad-looking man according to our nursemaid. After they married, my mother left the burden of tending the land to him, while she took care of us and her bees.”
She told the tale as if reading from a storybook. Perhaps that was how she distanced herself from the pain. As heir, Gerard had always felt smothered by his family’s constant attention. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like without their support, even when he resented it.
“And then your mother died,” he said for her, watching warily for tears.
She nodded. “Isobel and I failed miserably at our one London season. We’d attended an English boarding school, but silly us, we’d spent it with books and studies and not developing social connections. Our mother never had our opportunities, so she had only her title to give us presence.”
“And no wealth.” Gerard fully understood how society worked. Barren land in the north wasn’t much of a dowry. “You and your sister weren’t at fault. Society is.”
“We simply didn’t think it mattered. We wanted to go home. At the time, we didn’t know how desperately ill our mother was and what would happen when she died. Once she was no longer there to control the purse strings, we seldom saw Mortimer. That didn’t bother us until the merchants closed our accounts for lack of payment.”
He could almost hear the sadness behind the finality of her tale. At sixteen, his sisters had delighted in frills, bought books and oil paints and whatever caught their fancy without thought to expense. The beekeeper and her sister probably couldn’t even buy food.
“But you managed to scrape by,” he finished for her. “What happened to make you flee?”
“Mortimer brought Arthur Winter home,” she said, as if the result was obvious.
“Sorry, I don’t know the name.” But he was already hating it.
“American industrialist, reportedly worth more than half the aristocrats in England.”
“Your stepfather gambled against him and lost?” Gerard guessed.
“I have no idea, but that’s a likely possibility,” she agreed with worldly cynicism. “And Mortimer was probably drunk and bragged of his counte
ss daughters who could magically bestow titles upon marriage. Keep in mind that only the servants ever mentioned the title, usually scolding us for not being proper countesses. It’s fairly meaningless under the circumstances.”
“But not to an ignorant American willing to spend a fortune to be called Lord Craigmore. Or Lord Arthur, I suppose. It would only be a courtesy title without the patent.” Gerard snorted. “Or maybe he’d be called Lord Iona. I’ll have to check DeBrett’s.”
She managed a small smile. “I doubt it works that way. Men are in charge, after all. They’d never allow another man to be demeaned by assuming the wife’s name.”
“Although it’s fine for a woman to be demeaned by taking a man’s name. Do not preach at me.” Now that there was less danger of tears, Gerard pushed. “For this incompetent duo, you would abandon your queen bee and the safety of Wystan?”
She eyed him with disfavor, which was fine with him. He needed that distance to keep from tugging her into his arms and kissing her until neither of them cared about titles and rewards.
“Try placing yourself in my position, my lord. An entire tribe of eager aristocrats come galloping to your door the instant they hear of a fortune and heiresses. Your host is stewing with avarice at just the mention of a reward. And your sister is even closer to danger. What would you do?”
Danger, the medallion repeated.
* * *
Iona wanted to weep at the loss of this perfect home, but she defiantly waited for Ives to produce magic rabbits from his over-sized hat.
The earl appeared intelligent, strong, and competent, despite his rakish attire and stubbled jaw. She wanted him to produce magic rabbits.
Except Rainford and his friends had rode straight here. They would seek other Malcolm strongholds as well. There weren’t many. She and Isobel might blend in to some extent, but with that reward—wheat would separate from chaff soon enough.
That anyone would want them enough to pay money for their return had never once occurred to them. They had just been escaping an untenable situation.
“I don’t suppose either of you have a suitor or two, do you?” Ives asked pessimistically, jarring her from her thoughts.
Iona almost laughed. “Hardly. Even if we were interested in sheepherders, we terrified them. Isobel once caught the rather handsome son of the local mercantile owner padding our bill, and I verbally shredded him. I could have done far worse. He left town not long after. Why would you ask?”
He shrugged and munched a biscuit. She watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down, and experienced a perplexing tightening in her middle. No wonder men hid their throats—they were quite visibly masculine and nothing like a lady’s.
His reply jarred her back to reality—“Obvious solution to Mr. Winter’s pursuit is for you to be already married, unless he’s as bloodthirsty as you and inclined to shoot your husband.”
Iona almost hooted at the notion of marriage. “I’m the one inclined to shoot. I can’t imagine Mr. Winter raising a sweat much less a gun. He’s naïve. His wealth is the danger. Besides, if I married, they would simply hunt Isobel. Want to find husbands for us both? By all means, keep hunting for a solution we haven’t already considered. We thought hiding until he went away would suffice. Canada seems our next best option. Would you care to finance the journey?” she asked in sarcasm.
“If I could afford a journey, I’d send myself to Italy. My family is land rich and blessed with numerous relations, all of whom receive allowances that drain the coffers. My contribution at this point would be to suggest negotiating a huge marriage settlement with Mr. Winter, marry him in name only, let him call himself king or whatever, and take the money and run. Take me with you, if you like.” He eyed her with interest.
Iona didn’t know whether to laugh or smack him. That the cynical earl might even consider running off with her actually offered temptation. It would never last, of course, but oh, the joy of seeing the world with the freedom to be as she wished. . .
“I am not even certain who I am anymore,” she said with a sigh.
“The queen bee, of course,” he replied without hesitation. “I’ve watched you. When you speak, people listen. Hiding is not your nature.”
“Neither is taking orders,” she admitted with wry amusement. That he’d noticed—tightened her midsection even more. When had been the last time a man had actually talked to her as if she had a brain? Around the twelfth of never would be her guess.
He rummaged in a cabinet and produced a bottle of wine. “So what was your plan that you needed to abandon your queen after—I assume—you hauled her all the way here?”
Iona was grateful he kept his hands occupied. Her desire had not decreased despite the grimness of their discussion. She had to resist leaning closer to him.
“I was hoping she would offer me wisdom. Mostly, I want to know Isobel is safe, but I need to know where I’m going before I can write to her.” Iona turned up her nose at the offer of wine. “I don’t touch alcohol. I’ve seen what it does.”
“Not in moderation, but suit yourself.” He poured his own. “Your sister will write you here. There is no reason to leave. Malcolms shelter Malcolms.”
She wanted to yank the boyish lock of black hair on his forehead in exasperation. But the earl was large, solidly built, and all male, including the density of his thought processes. She wasn’t stupid enough to test his reaction. “Even if you trust me when I say the ten thousand pounds isn’t real, you have a household of people with dreams who would like to believe they can put the money to good purpose.”
He lifted a questioning eyebrow.
She glared at his thickness. “Winifred has a son with a case of consumption so bad that even her healing hasn’t helped him. She’s kept him alive by paying a sanitarium on the proceeds from the herbal articles she writes from morning to night and from what little her patients pay. She could take the reward and her son and go to the south of France and be with him for the rest of his days.”
The earl uttered an expletive and drank his wine.
“Mary Mike is saving to buy a farm of her own,” Iona continued relentlessly. “Grace sells her beautiful tartans and blankets in shops to wealthy people so she can provide hundreds of cheap blankets for orphanages and workhouses. She can’t forget growing up cold and wishing only for a blanket to call her own. Can you imagine what she might do with the money?”
“Then let’s go back to negotiating with your wealthy, naïve nabob for a marriage settlement in exchange for your title,” he growled. “Then you can finance every Malcolm here and take sail to anywhere.”
Iona was very afraid that might be the only solution.
Nine
Promising no one could possibly guess Nan—Iona’s—identity until more information was forthcoming, Gerard sent her off to bed for her own good. Even in that droopy gown, she’d been far too enticing for his current state of abstinence. Talking to her had been like playing with a hot firecracker wrapped in pretty golden papers—and just as dangerous. A countess! What more didn’t he know about his unusual tenants?
Was it more dangerous knowing or not knowing? Knowing who might be a danger to Iona seemed essential. He didn’t need the medallion whispering warnings in his head to tell him that.
The next morning, he pleaded estate duties and let Rainford and company ride off without him.
To Gerard’s great relief, Lady Alice found a ride in the carriage hauling Rainford’s baggage, so he didn’t have to worry about being waylaid again. Old acquaintance or not, Alice was a pestilence he didn’t need. Let her father take her in.
He spent his morning with the books in the privacy of his keep, determining everything was in order. The estate still earned enough to pay his allowance, but if he wanted to make improvements, he’d have to use his funds, which meant giving up his rooms in London, and any hope of life outside of Wystan.
The medallion was back in his pocket again, grumbling. Did Lowell think it was a good luck charm and keep
transferring it to his fresh clothes?
He swiped at a bee flying too close, scowled at the open window, and decided he was hungry.
Leaving his new valet to fuss over his neglected wardrobe, Gerard warily slipped into the main house for nourishment, entering through the back hall where his Great-Aunt Winifred occupied the official office. She wore her fading blond hair in a high pompadour that he now knew was probably propped up with fake hair, which made her far less intimidating for some reason.
Still, he hesitated. He’d never questioned the ladies over all these years, assuming they functioned fine and didn’t need him. He hadn’t wanted to become involved.
But knowing some of his aunt’s story now. . . He ought to hear the rest. He had cousins by the trainload. He tried to place which one was Winifred’s invalid son. He conjured up a harmless, scholarly sort he hadn’t seen since childhood.
Winifred glanced up and caught him hovering. “Do you realize the price of honey is four times that of sugar? If we can produce clean, unadulterated honey, we can sell it for a fortune. Nan will pay her own way in the first year and make a substantial profit once she has more than one hive in operation.”
Pretending disinterest, Gerard leaned his shoulder against the door jamb. The ladies would swamp him with demands if they knew he had started paying attention. “I cannot imagine how you keep books to determine how much each tenant must contribute to the household.”
She gestured at her journals. “Pretty much the same way you handle the crops and rents. I know how much it costs to run the household. We have servants sufficient to maintain ten bedchambers. We do not entertain often, so our expenses are steady. Most of the food is grown here, but wax for candles and the like are added to the figures. Although now that Nan is here, we can make our own wax. If we have ten residents, we divide the household costs by ten and consider it rent.” She shrugged. “I keep track of our income. Anything we earn over the rent amount is ours.”
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